#1: New World

            I began reading the Harry Potter series in ’98, when I was eight-years-old. My grandmother gave me a paperback of the Sorcerer’s Stone for Christmas. I remember glancing at the synopsis and not being impressed. What eight-year-old girl wants to read about wizards? But I began to read anyway, and I quickly fell in love. I submerged myself completely until –much to my horror- I finished the book, and I had nothing else to do until the next book was released in the states.

            For me, the believability was not an issue. I wholeheartedly accepted the idea that Harry was a wizard and that there was an entire other world and subsequent culture out there. Looking back now, I can see how easy this was for me because of Rowling’s impressive back-stories. She created this entirely separate universe, and had logical explanations for any questions that might have been raised. Because she did her work so thoroughly, I don’t think for a second that it was unheard of for readers to become completely immersed in this fantastic world.

            I believe that I identified the most with Harry. Or rather, I wanted to identify the most with Harry. I wanted to be the headstrong hero who looks death in the face, and perseveres multiple times. I had an annoyingly smart cousin, who I associated with Hermione, and a little brother who was endearingly clueless. I was convinced that we were the Golden Trio, and we spent many afternoons using sticks for wands because of this idea.

The fact that these children were only 11 never crossed my mind. I never once doubted that Harry, The Chosen One, would fail to defeat Voldemort. This was good vs. evil and good always won in my eyes. I fell for all of the red herrings. I loathed Snape up until the end. I hated Malfoy and his goons. I accepted this entirely different world without any problems.